


Always the Poets

by celestialteapot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Remembrance Day, world war poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialteapot/pseuds/celestialteapot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt: John/Mycroft, bonding over 1st World War poetry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always the Poets

It was Remembrance Day and John found that he was feeling very emotional. His therapist had suggested going down to the Cenotaph and joining the crowds honouring the men and women in uniform. He hadn’t need much persuasion. He was a soldier, a proud soldier and would always be so, but there were days when he was reminded of the men he failed to save, of the men who came home to their loved ones in a box. That's why he was going.

He was going to stand in the crowd lining the route and honour his friends, honour the men he had failed to save and honour those who had stood before in his place. Pulling his coat tight against the wind, he affixed his Poppy to the lapel and set off towards Whitehall. 

He found a place to watch, out of the main throng and private enough that he could lose himself in memories without much attention. He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to overwhelm him as he remembered.

“'Make them forget, O Lord, what this Memorial / Means; their discredited ideas revive; / Breed new belief that War is purgatorial / Proof of the pride and power of being alive.'"

"Sassoon." he murmured, turning to face the soft familiar voice. Mycroft was dressed a dark three piece suit, his red Poppy contrasting crisply, fingers white as he tightly gripped the handle of his umbrella. 

Inclining his head slightly, Mycroft smiled. "Yes. 'At the Cenotaph'. I always found it particularly...affecting."

"...yeah."

"Sherlock not with you?"

"No...I...don't think...I don't think he understands."

"I doubt many do."

""If any question why we died / Tell them, because our fathers lied'." 

"...is that how you feel?"

"Sometimes." John shrugged. Suddenly overwhelmed with anger, "why me?" he asked, "what was so special about me? I had friends...friends with families...loved ones. They didn't come back, or if they did they left something behind. I had no one. Better men died."

"'Who shall deliver us from the memory of these dead?'" Turning, John looked at Mycroft, at tears slowly rolling down his face and wondered what memories haunted the older man. Gently, John reached for his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. At the Cenotaph - Siegfried Sassoon  
> 2\. Epitaphs of the War - Rudyard Kipling  
> 3\. Memory - Margaret Sackville


End file.
